"Dared to ask!" she repeated blankly, alarmed and upset by his singular change of manner.
"And you would tell the truth," he added, and heard his own voice sound suddenly husky and shaken. "Tell it to me now!"
"I always do," she stammered.
"No matter what it is," he continued, as if he had not heard her—"no matter how it may hurt me or injure you."
The color ran over her face and as quickly ebbed away, leaving her pallid. It might have been the confession of innocence or the confusion of guilt. She looked nervously from side to side, raised her eyes to his, and dropped them again.
"There are always a few things a person can't tell," she almost whispered.
He gave an ugly laugh, and put his arm half round her as if to draw her to him, then drew back as quickly, and turning away, walked to the window. Viola did not seem to have noticed the attempted caress. There was a moment of penetrating silence. He wondered if she could hear his heart beat.
Then she said:
"Why do you say such strange things? I always tell you the truth."
To his listening ear her voice sounded affectedly naïve. He answered without moving:
